


Scandalous!

by GwenDish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acting is Serious Business, Alternate Universe, Alto Pride, And Their Pessimistic Partners, Androgyny, Barristers are Sexy, Byronic Hero(ine), Case Fic, Chronic Optimism, Declarations Of Love, Dimples of Venus, Emotions Don't (always) Make You Weak, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, Friendship, Godfrey Norton is a Hell of a Guy, Godfrey is Dashing, Hopeless romantic boyfriends, Idiots in Love, Irene Hates Waiting, Love in the Form of Bickering, M/M, Male Bonding, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage Proposal, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Overprotective Siblings, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Slash, Puppies, Romance, Sherlock is a Brat, Suprasternal Notch Fixation, Work In Progress, cross-dressing, the Reviled 'C' Word, the things we do for love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenDish/pseuds/GwenDish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern-day re-imagining of <i>A Scandal in Bohemia</i> with a few alterations, deeper character explorations, and the inclusion of that guy that Irene Adler married at the end of the story whom everyone seems to forget.</p><p>In which Irene causes trouble (or may be <i>in</i> trouble), plans a wedding, and routinely steals men's clothing, all while evading her paranoid ex-boyfriend.  Sherlock is reviled by emotions and love, but especially the notion that he might not be immune to either.  Godfrey is the unknowing cause of this whole mess, Mycroft is Mycroft, and John knows that, in the end, it's all fine.</p><p>Definitely an AU from s2e01 of <i>Sherlock</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scandalous!

**Author's Note:**

> Because, while much can and has been said about the original Irene Adler being a symbol of female social progression in the Victorian era, not much has been said about Godfrey Norton. You know, her husband? That guy she marries in _A Scandal in Bohemia?_ In fact, it seems like he’s either ignored or forgotten, which is a shame. He’s an incredibly understanding, loyal, and all around decent guy. His wife is an independent, freethinking, cross-dressing actress (which, given the popular opinion on thespians during that time, is enough to sully Godfrey’s position as a respectable barrister) who has made her own fortune and may or may not have had premarital sex—with a distinguished monarch, no less, who she now intends to blackmail. And Godfrey sticks with her regardless of all of this. A man who loves a woman for who she is and doesn’t try to dictate her life? Talk about a prime example of male social progression. And he doesn’t get enough appreciation, he really doesn’t. I have nothing against Irene/Sherlock, I just wish that Godfrey showed up more in fic. Hence, this story. It isn’t all about the Irene/Godfrey love story (honestly, I’d classify it as a casefic before I’d call it a romance), but that is the main reason why I wanted to write it. Hopefully I’ve managed to do all of the characters justice.
> 
> On that note, this was all planned out and written before "A Scandal in Belgravia" ever aired--and I have yet to see that episode, so this should be quite interesting.

 

It hadn’t been easy.  Even those who knew him very well—knew of his kind and honourable (if somewhat cheeky) character—would have no doubt inquired as to whether or not he had employed narcotics—perhaps made a threat of some sort?—had they known that he had embarked on a difficult and perilous quest…and returned successful.  The questions would all be intended as jests, of course.  But the scepticism would still be there, humming beneath the teasing and sincere congratulations.  The underlying doubt that would make them wonder—even suspect, for the more cynical—that there _must_ have been _something_ else, some ulterior motive or unfair compromise.  Rather than growing indignant, he knew that he would have allowed it, nice guy that he was.  And he wouldn’t have blamed them, really.  He had had doubts as well—still did, if he wanted to be honest.  There were times when he wondered if he truly _had_ fought a monster and won.

 

After all, it _hadn’t_ been easy.

 

He had entered the fray with steel resolve and _stainless_ steel armour, sword in hand, prepared for the worst…

 

When the smoke had finally cleared, he had been stunned.  Giddy.  And weak-kneed with relief.  He hadn’t been able to believe it—still couldn’t, at times.  It had seemed impossible.

 

But it hadn’t been impossible, had it?  He had prevailed.  He had gone in with every reason to believe that he would fail and he _hadn’t_.  He had brandished his sword and dealt the fatal blow that had slain the dragon, and—oh Jesus God, he needed to stop this.  Why he had thought that chivalric metaphors were a good way to go…  Admittedly, he was not a man who was easily frightened (just look at whom he was dating), but he was hardly a _knight_.  And comparing the woman he loved to a _dragon_ , really, that was going a bit far, wasn’t it?  Granted, she could be about as temperamental as one, but she was hardly a massive, fire-breathing _reptile_.  She was his fiancée!

 

Good God.

 

How had _that_ happened?

 

At the time, it really _had_ seemed impossible.  Even now, nearly twenty-four hours later, he still hadn’t completely wrapped his mind around it.  His girlfriend—fiancée now, oh _God_ —loathed the idea of marriage, just as she loathed anything else that she thought was pointless.  But she had said _yes_.  Why had she said _yes?_   How had he convinced her?  _Had_ he convinced her?  No, probably not.  Her decisions were rarely (if ever) influenced by outside sources, and he wasn’t arrogant enough to believe that he had any sway over what she did.

 

Which meant that she had to have been sincere.  She really _did_ want to marry him.

 

When his bride-to-be had first agreed, his mind had, however fleetingly, entertained the notion that there might have had an alternative reason behind it.  But…no.  She wasn’t the type to treat such a major decision like a pawn in whatever machination she was currently plotting (probably something minor like obtaining a prescription for medicinal marijuana).  And as far as major decisions went, this…this one was _epic_.

 

She had been wedged into the corner of the sofa, legs thrown up over the back and eyes burning holes through the play in her hand when he had entered the sitting room.  Standing in the doorway, he had taken in the scene before him and had found himself resisting the urge to abort his original plan in favour of snogging her senseless instead.

 

_No, no…best not put it off._

 

He had cleared his throat.

 

“Ah-hem, ah, babe?  …babe?  Darling?”

 

Eyes never leaving her script, his lover had drawn a low, preparatory breath and then, with wry stoicism, declared:

 

“‘ _I_ am the Duchess of Malfi still.’”

 

He had blinked.

 

“Oh.  So you’re going to take the part after all, then?”

 

“Nope,” she had stated, flinging Webster’s masterpiece away as if it was an offensive Frisbee.  “I wanna be Hamlet.”

 

“You hate Hamlet,” he had pointed out.  “Both the Danish prince and the play.”

 

“Yeah, but I think he might be more tolerable if he were played by _me_.”

 

“You’re completely set on being a real-life Victor/Victoria, aren’t you?”

 

“Mm, a woman playing a man playing a _man_ playing a _woman_ ,” she had hummed.  “If I wanted to do that, I’d appear in _Twelfth Night_.  And even then, it’d only work if I were male, and it would _still_ be a reversal of the ideal situation.  No, no, it’s Hamlet or nothing.”

 

“Well, _Just_ Victoria, would you, ah…would you look here for a moment?”

 

He had watched, chest taut with anticipation, as she turned to face him.  She had performed a quick scan, eyes roaming up and down, taking in everything about him: how his expression had been earnest and open, how he had been down on one knee, and how in his hands he had held a green velvet box that contained a single, shining (not to mention ri _dic_ ulously expensive) symbol of unity and love.

 

He had held his breath.

 

“No.”

 

Just like that.  Simple, monosyllabic, immediate, absolute.  And she had ploughed on before he had even had a chance to recover.

 

“ _No._   Not like this.  Up— _up—_ on the couch—and _don’t_ shove it at me.”

 

Quick to comply, he had sat down next to her on the sofa, placing the ring box on his knee, careful not to ‘shove it at her,’ as she had put it, while she…

 

She had scrambled into a sitting position and shot a quick, wary look at the distressing piece of jewellery, her shoulders rippling in a minute cringe as she let out a low huff.  Seeing this, he had had the strong impression that, had she feathers, they would have been quite noticeably ruffled.

 

“I hate kneeling, it’s degrading.  And stupid.  And _cliché_ —”

 

“All right, all _right_ , no kneeling.  God forbid, if it makes you utter the reviled ‘C’ word.”  He had rolled his eyes, exhaling heavily.  “But I take it that’s not a no on the…this, then?”  He had nodded to the ring, regarding her cautiously.

 

Her response had be a long-suffering sigh.

 

“ _Why?_   You think that a marriage will make us happy?  Because frankly, I thought we were doing pretty well without one.”

 

“We are.”

 

“Then _why_ do you want to get _married?_   What’s the point, other than putting on an elaborate show for everyone so they no longer doubt that we’re in love?  Because that’s all it is.  I’m past caring about what people think, and I know you are, too—otherwise I never would’ve dated you.  So why this sudden desire to tie the knot?”

 

“Because I love you,” he had said simply.  Such a true and tender statement would have cut through most people, melting their icy resolves and touching their hearts. 

 

His girlfriend was not most people.

 

Thankfully, he had always been of a high enough intelligence to remember this.  He had told her that he loved her then because it had been, and was still, the truth.  Attempting to lie to her was largely a wasted endeavour, anyway.  She always knew when someone was putting her on.

 

“And because of that we need to get _married?_ ” she had demanded.  “That doesn’t make any sense!" A huff. "We’re _happy_ like this, right?  Then let me reiterate: _Why_ do we have to get married?  It won’t _change anything!”_

 

“What’s the harm in getting married?” he had inquired calmly.

 

“What’s the _point?_ ” she had countered.  “Why would you wanna belong to such a senseless and obsolete institution?”

 

“To make it official.”

 

“Offi… Go to hell.”

 

"Oi!”

 

“No.  Thatis bullshit.  What did I just say about putting on a show for people?  While I realize that I’ve made a career out of doing just that, the difference is that I don’t perform for anyone other than my _self_.”

 

He had signed, steadily watching her.  He did a lot of that, he reflected now.  But then, so did everyone else.  Even when she wasn’t on stage, deliberately demanding attention, it was impossible to _not_ look at her.  She wasn’t just beautiful, and it wasn’t just because of that, either.  She was a presence.  She didn’t need to say or do anything; she would simply enter a room and people wouldn’t be able to help but _look_ at her.  In many ways—at the risk of sounding like a delusional, lovesick dolt—she was almost otherworldly.

 

She was damn near impossible, as well.  It had been ages before he had finally convinced her to go on a date with him.  This, he imagined, would take a bit longer.

 

“I know that, I do, but we wouldn’t be doing it for _them_.  We’d be doing it for _us_.  It would be a promise to each other to stay committed and devoted and in love.”

 

She had glared at him with a face carved out of marble, mouth tight and nostrils flared.  Her eyes had begun to smoulder with an impatient heat that told him he was rapidly losing the fight.

 

“If you think that’s gonna convince me, you’re wrong.  It’s just making me more irritated.”  She had shot to her feet, ready to storm off to the bedroom or the roof or wherever it was she went to brood.

 

“Babe—”

 

“We _don’t need_ a marriage to make that promise.  We don’t need a marriage at all.  And you know that.”

 

“But I _want_ one.”  And, hell, if he hadn’t sounded like a petulant child saying that.  Stamping his foot would have completed the look.

 

“Well I _don’t_ ,” she had fired back, not quite shouting but close to it.  “The only reason why two people should get married is because it’s something that they both want to do because they’re in love with one another.  And I think that we’ve already established where we both stand as far as love goes.”

 

“Listen,” he had implored.  _Approach this delicately._   “This isn’t about my wanting to get married.  This is about dispelling all of your doubts and finally making you realize that _I’m not going to leave you_.”

 

She had only stared, but at least he had known that she was listening.

 

“I know you’re worried that some day, I’ll reach the end of my tether, that eventually, I’ll get completely fed up and walk out on you, but darling, _darling_ —” And here he had gently taken her arms “—it’s been _three years_ since we met.  Three bloody ridiculous, fan _tas_ tic years.  During which I’ve been a witness to your bizarre vocal rituals, the utterly _stupid_ lengths you go to in order to prepare for a role, I’ve seen you verbally and physically assault the telly, steal my clothes, inveigh against my friends and colleagues—to their faces!—and wander around the flat _naked_ with absolutely _no regard_ for who else might be present.  Although I actually don’t mind that last one so much, but I _would_ appreciate it if you showed a _small_ degree of modesty the next time my mum drops by.”  He had smiled hesitantly.  “The point is, yeah.  You are probably the most aggravating, self-entitled, vainglorious bint I have ever known, but I am _far_ from being sick of you.  And it occurred to me that the best way to convince you of that is to ask you to marry me.”

 

She had pressed her lips together in a thin line, eyes flitting over him, no doubt searching for traces of dishonesty that he had known she would never find.

 

“If our hypothetical marriage ends in divorce—” And there, in one uncharacteristic moment, she had faltered.  Closed her eyes, started again.  “If it ends in divorce, then it won’t have meant anything.  The preparations, the ceremony, living together as man and wife…all of that will have been a waste.  I can’t stand the thought of that.”

 

And this, he knew, _this_ was the main reason for her aversion toward matrimony.  It was a contradiction—his girlfriend had gone from railing on about the pointlessness of marriage to more or less confessing that she feared divorce because then the marriage would be meaningless.  He understood the difference, though he wondered how many others would have the patience to do the same.  Honestly, there _was_ no reason for them to tie the knot—they both earned impressive incomes, so it was not a matter of money, nor was there any cause to worry about making an honest woman out of his lover—this was hardly the Victorian Era.  And, as she had said, they loved each other and they both knew it, and that was that.  There really was _no sense_ in their getting married.  But if they _did_ …well, that didn’t mean that they marriage wouldn’t be important.  To both of them.  To her.  For all of the insanely stupid and reckless risks that woman took, she had been hesitant to jeopardize her heart.

 

For he life of him, he hadn’t been able to think of a better, more logical way to reassure her.  So in the end, he had settled for the truth.

 

“I don’t think it’ll be a waste because I don’t think it’ll end in divorce.”

 

“Chronic optimist,” she had muttered. Then,  “Idiot... Unless you’re psychic, you have no way of knowing that we’ll last.”

 

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have made such an _idiotic_ decision if I didn’t think we stood at least a _slight_ chance of staying together forever.”

 

She had looked away then, lips strained in a certain pucker that he knew meant she was debating, weighing the pros and cons of saying yes.  Or no.

 

“What about the day you realize that you’ve made a mistake and dump me for some quiet, uncomplicated girl with straight hair?”

 

He had gaped at her.

 

“…you’ve been watching that Streisand film again, haven’t you?”

 

And she had turned these wide, doleful eyes on him, wistfully singing, “ _Memories… Light the corners of my mind…_ ”

 

“Okay—”

 

“ _Misty water-coloured memories…of the way…we were—_ ”

 

“Shush!” he had ordered, laughing as he kissed her.

 

“Mm, I bet she’d be a soprano, too.”  Her words had been slightly muffled.  “The girl you’d dump me for.”

 

“Of course,” he had replied, lips moving along her jaw line.

 

“A _wannabe_ -soprano,” she had amended in a tone laced with both delight and contempt.

 

“Oh absolutely,” he had agreed.  “That would just be the cherry on the slap-in-the-face cake.  Because if I’m going to insult you and break your heart, I’m going to pull out all the stops.”

 

She had made a low, offended sound before firmly pressing their lips together in a long, binding kiss.

 

“You’re a tall, dark, handsome _attorney_ ,” she had pronounced after pulling away, shaking her head in frustration.  “Which is above airline pilot and second only to doctor.  And not only do you have money, you have an _accent_.  All things considered, you shouldn’t have any problem finding a perfectly nice girl who’d be more than happy to marry you.”

 

“I don’t want a perfectly nice girl,” he had murmured.  Quiet.  Sincere.

 

“Oh, is this about the ‘bad girl’ thing again—?”

 

“ _No_ it’s _not_ ,” he had insisted, rolling his eyes teasingly.  “I don’t want a ‘bad girl’ either.  I want _you_ —don’t sing—is that so difficult to believe?”

 

“I wasn’t going to sing, and honestly?  Yes, it is.  But not when it comes to you,” she had admitted, brow creasing in confusion, like she hadn’t be able to figure it out beyond ‘He’s an idiot and/or he’s insane.’

 

“That’s because I love you.”  He had sniffed and said airily, “And anyway, I think you’re selling yourself short by accepting the ‘bad girl’ label.  Frankly, it’s a terribly clichéd image.”

 

She had cocked her head to the side, eyebrows arched in disbelief and mock-offence while all he offered in return was a careless shrug.  Of course, his air of nonchalance might have been more convincing (especially with the innocent blinking he had affected) had he succeeded in holding back a smirk.  Not that his girlfriend wouldn’t have seen through the façade, anyway.

 

His grin broadening, he watched as she lifted her hands in elegant defeat and sighed in exasperation.

 

“Let me see the ring.”

 

Knowing full well that a stupid and overly pleased look must have taken over his face, he had hurriedly snatched up the box, then pressed it into her palm, and waited.

 

“This is vintage,” she had observed, turning the ring over thoughtfully.  “Four, five carat…clearly expensive without looking too ostentatious…silver band—looks better on me than gold…aquamarine diamond…” She had raised her eyebrows, giving a small nod of approval.  “Tasteful but unconventional.”  Her head had snapped up.  “You picked this out yourself?”

 

He had turned one of her own Looks back on her, the one that said ‘You just asked a _really_ obvious question, idiot.’  Because, really, who would he have asked?  There wasn’t anyone who knew her well enough to be of any assistance, with the exception of her sister and he had known that _that_ was out of the question.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” he had stressed, sounding annoyed but smiling.  “I’ll have you know, it took me ages to find one I thought you’d like—and you didn’t even notice that I went with a cushion shape rather than the standard princess cut.”

 

“I noticed,” she had said faintly.  “You’ve been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?”

 

“Mm, quite a while, now, yeah.  I told you: I wanted to find the right ring.  You are a frustratingly difficult woman to please.”

 

“I know,” she had murmured, her voice quiet and distant in a way that had bothered him.  He had frowned, peering at her closely.

 

“I don’t _mind_.”

 

“I know you don’t,” she had replied rather quickly.  “I’m simply…well, you know.”

 

He had only been able to nod.  He did know—of course he did.  She had told him as much on their first date:

 

“ _Right now you think that this Ice Queen demeanour that I’ve got going on is just a façade.  What you need to realize is that this is how I really am.  I’m not playing hard-to-get and I’m not trying to protect my secretly warm and fuzzy interior—that doesn’t exist.  The fact is, I am a difficult person to get along with.  My work comes before everything else—yes, even sex, and if I don’t think y ou’re interesting enough, that is something that will_ neverhappen _.   Secondly, I won’t hesitate to insult you if I think you deserve it.  Or if it’s true.  When things don’t go my way, I yell, I kick, I throw things—sometimes I bite.  I’m arrogant, opinionated, fairly morbid, and slightly misanthropic, and I really don’t care if it’s in poor taste to tell you all of this on the first date._ ”

 

He had thought that she had been joking, that she had a self-depreciating sense of humour.  It had taken a few seconds for him to realize that he had been mistaken.  She certainly wasn’t the easiest person to get along with—part of him was fairly certain that she was a least a little bit mad.  He couldn’t say that he minded, though, and that probably made him a bit mad as well.

 

“Hypothetical question,” he had then ventured.  “All concerns and possible divorces aside, do you think you would _enjoy_ being married to me?”

 

“I don’t see why I wouldn’t,” she had admitted.

 

“All right.  Well, with that in mind, if, somehow, we knew for certain that it _would_ last, would you _want_ to marry me?”

 

“……yes,” she had finally said.  “I would.”

 

“Okay then.”  He had smiled.  “That’s good enough for me.”

 

“Are you attempting to employ reverse psychology—”

 

“No!  No, _God_ no.  I’m just saying… I _want_ to get married, but I understand why you _don’t_ , and I can be content with the knowledge that you _would_ say yes had we any definite way of predicting a lifetime of guaranteed post-nuptial bliss.”  He had reached out to stroke her cheek with his thumb.  “Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Good.”

 

“No, I mean ‘Okay, let’s do it.’”

 

“Do…sorry, _what?_ ”

 

“I’d think that it’d be obvious.  We’ve only been discussing it for the past fifteen minutes.”

 

For the second time that day, he had found himself gaping at her, completely thrown off.

 

“Sorry, you’re saying you—?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You mean you—?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So you really want to—?”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“And that means we’re…”

 

His girlfriend had sighed, giving him a pitying look, before raising her left hand and deliberately sliding the ring onto her third finger.

 

“Oh,” he had breathed with quiet acceptance.  “Oh—well— _oh_.  Well!  It’s just…for a minute, there, I thought you…but no, no, sorry…uh.  Well… Good, then.”

 

“Eloquent.”

 

“Shut it,” he had replied and kissed her hard.

 

After a moment of thorough and entirely fulfilling snogging, his new bride-to-be had leaned back and resolutely stated:

 

“I don’t wanna make a big deal out of this.”

 

He had nodded.

 

“Neither do I.  Granted, I have no intention of _hiding_ this, but I don’t plan on ringing everyone on my contacts list and telling them the news.”

 

“Tacky.”

 

“Exactly,” he had agreed before kissing her once again, pleased at the thought that no one would encroach on their own, private happiness.

 

“Also, no big, ridiculous wedding ceremony,” she had continued.  “No having it in a church; no white dress—I’m pale enough as it is—no writing our own vows, I’ve always thought that that was schmaltzy and anyway, the world doesn’t need to know how we feel about one another.”

 

“Okay.  Anything else?”

 

“No inviting anyone from my family—in fact, we don’t even have to tell them about this, though God knows my sister will find out soon enough… Anyway, I’mfine with having a reception, but again, I’d like to keep it small.  We could even have it here, or maybe at Grafton House...someplace nice.  And…I think that’s it.  What do you wanna do?”

 

He had already thought about it.

 

“Small ceremony, definitely.  I’d like to invite Jude, Tamzin, and my mum…can’t really think of anyone else…  No white dress for me, either, sorry, but formal wear _would_ be nice…uh…champagne.  And wine.  And…whatever everyone else wants to drink.  And cake— _real_ wedding cake.  Not a _big_ one, but I love the stuff and if it’s my wedding, then I want one.  With tiers and that thick, white icing that’s incredibly sugary.”

 

“I’d have thought you’d have wanted carrot cake.”

 

“Who says I don’t?” he had asked, looking puzzled.  Then he had realized: “Ohh…carrot cake rather cancels out diabetic coma-inducing icing, doesn’t it?  Damn cream cheese...”

 

“Well, if you’re insisting on the tiered look, we could always have the top one be made out of carrot cake, and then that’ll be for us.  And the rest of it can be sponge cake or something, and we’ll serve that to everyone else, all the vanillas at our reception.”

 

“Which implies that you and I are _non_ -vanillas, ergo one could conclude that…carrot cake is the kinky dish of choice?”

 

She had stared up at him, blinking in that slow, deliberate manner as if to say ‘ _Well? What do_ you _think?_ ’  And how she had managed to keep a straight face, he had no idea, as his own mouth had twitched in the threat of a smirk.  Then suddenly, she had snorted in amusement and pressed her face against his chest, shoulders hitching from muffled snickering.

 

“Well!” he had huffed defensively, despite also grinning like an idiot.  He had chuckled a little, shaking his head and slinging his arms around her in a strong embrace. 

 

“Speaking of kinky,” his wife-to-be had remarked, giving her left hand a critical Look.  “I’m disappointed.  This is a nice ring and all, but I can’t believe you cheaped out and didn’t get me one like Kate Middleton’s.”

 

“Oh _hell_ ,” he had groaned. “If you _must_ know, it was between _that_ one, the Royal Wedding one, and whatever ring that stupid socialite got….the girl with the big arse and no discernable talent.  So forgive me if I went with the one I thought you might actually _like_.”

 

“I’m just saying…” She had shrugged.  “Think of all the Royal Wedding role-play we’ll be missing out on.”

 

“We’ll come up with plenty of other scenarios, don’t you worry,” he had firmly avowed before pointedly clearing his throat.  “ _Getting back on track_ … Lastly, I want none of those snobby, over-priced wedding invitations.  I’ve never liked them; they always seemed too cold and lofty for what’s supposed to be a heart-warming event.”

 

“They are over-priced,” she had concurred, nodding.  “Granted, I’m one to talk, with what I spend on material possessions alone, but then, I actually _use_ those.  A wedding invite, you’re just gonna throw away.”

 

“Glad to know we’ve reached a consensus.”

 

“One more thing,” she had started, her head popping up.  “I’m not taking your name.”

 

Hand to his heart, he had pretended to be affronted.

 

“What?  Not adhering to the time-honoured tradition of sexist inequality?  You know, your dad _gives you away_ —quite literally—to me, and then you go by _my_ surname instead of his, thus showing that you’re no longer a possession of your father.  You’re _mine_.  You mean to tell me you aren’t keen on that?”

 

“This is only after you ask him for my hand in marriage, right?” she had played along.

 

“Of course— _not_.”  He had shaken his head.  “As much as I respect your father, I respect _you_ mor—well, actually, I respect you both about equally, which is why I _didn’t_ ask for his permission to marry you.  I believe he knows that that is a decision only you can make, and, frankly, I think he would have been as appalled at my asking as you would’ve been upon hearing that I’d asked.” 

 

Her lips had given the slightest twitch.

 

“To answer your question, my wanting to keep my maiden name has nothing to with outdated patriarchal traditions.  For one, I like my name as it is.  And I just think that, with my line of work, acquiring a different appellation would needlessly confuse and complicate things.”

 

“You wound me, darling, though I suppose I should have foreseen this when I decided to marry an actress.  I can’t recall the last one who took her husband’s name.  My only concern is how I’m going to tell Mum there’ll be no ‘Mrs Godfrey Norton.’”

 

She had waved off the issue.

 

“She’ll get over it.”

 

And to anyone else, such a dismissive and flippant response might have been offensive.  But, truthfully (and again, this wasn’t just the defensive insistence of a thoroughly besotted imbecile) he hadn’t minded.  The thing about his now future wife was, when she made remarks like that, she didn’t intend for them to be hurtful, merely _factual_.  Usually.  For the most part.  Almost half of the time, anyway.

 

Besides that, he had known that his mother _would_ get over it.  She was an odd combination of traditional values and progressive thinking, yet somehow everything was always balanced.  True, at first his mum might be a bit surprised, but ultimately, she would be accepting.

 

So, rather than growing indignant, he had only sighed, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers and going a little cross-eyed when he tried to meet her gaze.

 

“You know something, Miss Irene Adler?  I can’t wait to marry you.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- _Scandalous!_ \- named so because I've always wanted to write something that had an exclamation point in the title.
> 
> \- Godfrey Isn't a Knight \- well, he says that he isn't (and, if we're being literal, he's correct), but it's kind of funny because canon!Godfrey was a barrister at the Inner Temple, which takes its name from the Knights Templar, who were the ones who originally leased the land to the inhabitants of the Temple. Fun fact.
> 
> \- Irene Getting Married \- Victorian!Irene, like Sherlock, has always been considered ahead of her time, and I figured that her contemporary incarnation should be the same. However, her choosing to marry Godfrey and doing so out of love was progressive for the Victorian era. But with Contemporary!Irene that really isn't that big a deal. If anything (and this is where I got stuck), it might be more progressive of her to go against conventional practices by not marrying him. But, despite my own reservations about matrimony, I wanted her to get married. Plus, it's also somewhat of a cause for character development/revelation. It isn't necessary, but without it, certain aspects of the story felt kinda weak. Point is, if she was going to get married, I wanted her to have a good, legitimate (and by that I mean believable, in-character) reason for doing so. Hopefully I managed to find one.
> 
> \- "...some quiet, straight-haired, uncomplicated girl?" \- the English Major in me cannot resist pointing out my probably blatant attempt at symbolism by noting that Irene says girl, not woman, which goes along with all of the other contrasts that she listed. Because we all know that no one would call Irene Adler a girl...
> 
> \- Soprano-bashing \- no offense to any sopranos out there. It's just that when contraltos have been overlooked for centuries, never get to sing the melody line in vocal choirs, and there are so few leading roles written for them...it's kinda hard not to become a little embittered, even though it isn't the sopranos' fault. It would probably be good to mention here that Irene's opinions do not necessarily reflect my own.
> 
> \- As I said in my earlier notes, I have yet to see "A Scandal in Belgravia." Normally I would indulge in spoilers a little bit, but in this case, I deiced to avoid them because I didn't want anything to influence my own, personal take on the story. All I know is that Laura Pulver was cast as Irene Adler--and, for the record, she isn't who I picture when I think of the character. No offense to her; I’m sure she does an excellent job. It's just that, by the time it was announced that she would be playing the part, I already had my own idea of what Irene should look like (which will be revealed in the next installment).
> 
> \- Also, hopefully it isn’t too obvious from my writing, but I’m an American doing the best I can without a Brit-picker at the moment. If there are any mistakes, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I’ll certainly appreciate it! :)
> 
> \- Lastly, classes start up again in about a week, so I unfortunately have no idea how regular updates will be. On that note, I can say that the next chapter will include the following: a break-in, Sherlock the closet fanboy, the revelation of a potentially scandalous affair, and a puppy. Invoking TV Tropes here, but hopefully it's Better Than It Sounds. :)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Technically, everything is now public domain, but proper credit should still go to Moffat and Gatiss for giving us such a wonderful modernization, and to ACD for creating it all in the first place. In addition to that, the song "The Way We Were" was written by Alan and Marilyn Bergman, and the play _The Duchess of Malfi_ was written by John Webster.


End file.
